Just Another Oneshot Collection
by Taiora Freak
Summary: Jack and the Big Four's rocky road to finding equal footing and discovering just what it means to be family. The ups and downs and the in-betweens. Welcome to a new adventure.
1. Reunion

**Hi y'all!**

 **Just a little something to get me back in the saddle after a very long and unwanted hiatus. 'To Belong' is put on hold until I've edited the entire thang. I don't feel comfortable with it as is, but I still want to share my stories with you, so lo and behold here is the birth of another oneshot collection. (Ps. I'm still working on those requests, they are not forgotten and will be finished sometime this century.) Anyway, please enjoy! **

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**Reunion**

The cemetery is silent and forsaken, the land barren and overgrown with dead weeds. It's the dead of winter and the darkest of night. The path is lined by hedgerow of hawthorn, and ivy and overgrown trees form a natural canopy. His feet has trailed down this path before, more times than he can count. But this is the only time he's traversed this familiar, lonely place knowing _who he is_ , knowing _whom_ rest just beneath the stones that brought his frightened, ill-placed self such comfort during his darkest moments when even the desolate snow-scape of Antarctica refused to soothe his sorrow.

Light-footedly he steps over the constricting vines and trailing ivy blocking his path. As his bare feet takes him deeper into the cemetery he can't stop himself from casting a weary glance to the ever silent guardian above who has kept his life hidden from him for three hundred very long, very painful years, and he can't help but wonder, as so many times before, _why_.

An old ivy snakes around the long abandoned headstones, its grey-green deteriorating leaves moth-eaten and barely clinging to the eroding stones. It crumbles at his touch and he watches as the dusty remains is whisked away by the wintery breeze that follows him.

The silence that reigns supreme here among the dead, rings out like tolling bells, welcoming him back home, and he steps through the little derelict archway made of overgrown, untended vines, his soundless feet never falters as he crosses the threshold of the dead and enters a part of the cemetery that's as old and forgotten as him.

He gracefully weaves between the dilapidated tombstones, bare feet nimble and gentle. He is careful as he ghosts over the graves of his ancestors, of old friends and neighbors. He shows respect to his lost children and to those he never got to meet. His pale hand caresses each stone he passes and he decorates them in the most delicate of frost ferns; a greeting and a goodbye.

He stops in front of a row of weather-worn gravestones standing closely together. He crouches before them and very gently brushes away the collected dust and dirt, carefully he pulls away the clinging ivies and the dead weeds at their bases.

He hasn't been here since he reclaimed his memories from the empty void inside him, too ashamed of having forgotten them and too scared to face them, to face reality. Even if the only one he can remember vividly and vibrantly is his sister, even if his mother is actually more a smell than anything else and his father a sensation, he still misses them. Terribly. He remembers a floral scent that brings him comfort – the fragrance she must have liked. He remembers strong hands throwing him into the air and spinning him around when they caught him. He knows his father's laugh too, a deep, rich chuckle that used to warm him down to his toes and made him feel protected, safe.

They have waited for him, waited patiently for him to remember, for him to come home as Jackson Overland and not the lonely, scared and confused frost child that hadn't known it was his family that lay buried deep deep deep underneath his pale, bare feet, forever out of his reach.

His eyes prickle and burn, the feeling of warm tears is uncomfortable against his cold retinas. He blinks and hurries to wipe away a couple of stray tears before they can freeze on his cold skin.

A fond smile flickers briefly across his face as his eyes find his sister's stone a little ways away from his own. She's buried beside her husband, and by the looks of the barley legible engravings she lived a long, prosperous life.

His eyes seek out the gravestones of his parents, equally tall and equally wide. The hand that doesn't grip his beloved staff goes into the pocket of his sweater and slowly withdraws a bouquet of flowers carved of ice and decorated with a coating of shimmering frost crystals. It has taken hour upon endless hour to get the bouquet just right, to recall just the correct flowers his mother loved and smelled of. He is proud of the result. It's beautiful. His finest work of art.

He places the arrangement of ice flowers on his mother's stone and for a moment he allows himself to imagine what her smiling face would have looked like. Would she have the same dimples as him? The same lopsided smile? He can almost feel the gentle, loving touch of her warm hand caressing his cheek, cupping his face.

It's with great reluctance he forces his mind away from hazy, distant memories. His eyes glides over his family twice more, then finds another weathered stone. He faces the gravestone belonging to Jackson Overland at last. _His headstone_.

It's even more eroded than his family's, the epitaphs all but worn away by the many seasons passed. His fingers tremble as he traces the letters. He reads the words out loud and they leave his lips as a soft, shaken murmur.

" _Jackson Overland, 1695-1712,_

 _Our beloved brave son and brother,_

 _A friend to all,_

 _Once met, never forgotten_."

His vision blurs again. This time he lets the tears fall, lets them roll gently down his pale cheeks, lets them freeze tracks that glisten silver in the scarce moonlight that makes its way through the thick canopy, and lets them tip from his quivering chin to fall silently to the frostbitten ground. His head is bowed, his shoulders hunched. He doesn't hide them. No one ever sees his tears.

He cries for what he's lost. He cries for what he's forgotten and what he remembers. He weeps for a mother's embrace he will never _feel_ again, he wails for a laugh he will never again _hear_ and he sobs for a sister's smile he will never again _see_.

And when the last tear falls and his voice is nothing but a gasping breath, he stands and wipes the clinging tears and ice from his face.

He gives the gravestones of his family a fragile smile as he reaches out a shaking hand and places it gently on his mother's stone. Frost swirls from his fingertips, blooming into delicate flowers. He does the same to his father's and his sister's, frost swirls dance elegantly across the weathered surfaces, creating intricate patterns and decorative designs.

As he works, he thinks.

He's always been drawn here, to this cluster of headstones, to this loving family, _his family_. His mind may have once been wiped clean, a blank slate for the world to mold and fashion, but even then, somewhere in the empty vault that should have held his memories, what little remained of Jackson Overland had always clung to this place, to this family.

He's spent many a night curled up or huddled against these gravestones, lost and alone and seeking comfort from strangers, one stone at first, then two, then three, then four and five. And he never understood why. Not until now.

It's the anniversary of his _death_. The anniversary of the day he _saved_ his sister. A sacrifice he would do again and again without hesitation, without doubt. He saved his sister! Warmth fills his perpetual cold body and a small happy smile touches his lips and brightens his face.

For three hundred years he didn't know who he was or why he was here, stuck in some sort of painful, solitary limbo.

It was worth it, he thinks, as he lets his hand trail over the eroding, illegible letters of the little headstone belonging to his sister.

He didn't get to see her grow up, never walked her down the aisle, never gotten to know his nieces or nephews…

But he'd made it all possible. His sister _lived_ because of him.

Looking behind him he sees his _new_ family hovering at the tree line, guarding the entrance to the forgotten cemetery, waiting for him.

 _He's not alone anymore._

"Hi, mom, dad—" his voice catches, there's a lump in his throat and he swallows thickly before continuing, "Little miss." He tips his head the right, to his sister's headstone, a teasing, lopsided little smile dimples his cheek. "I have someone I'd like to introduce you to…"


	2. A Home to Call His Own

**A Home to Call his Own**

Jack Frost never had a _home_ to call his own.

He was a wandering, nomadic spirit, solitary in nature. A winter spirit. He never needed a home, never directly wanted one. Yearned perhaps, on lonely, hurting nights when even his childish cries to the silent, omnipresent satellite above went unheard. He may have longed for the safety that comes with a home, on days when he hurdled close to a trunk high up on one of its sturdiest boughs, out sight of the hunting, vengeful and malevolent spirits below, scared and so terribly alone.

If asked, he could easily say his lake was his home, Burgess his domain. It was both true, in a way. The lake was where he died and later reanimated, the town where he used to live and later, claimed as his own.

No one had ever asked. Not in three hundred years. Not until he joined the Guardians' merry little group of particular individuals. However, Jack had a feeling an answer like that was likely not to be favored by any of them, not when they all had such awesome, grandiose realms outside the mortal plane.

Jack didn't even have a house.

He didn't want to admit it, didn't want their pitying looks.

They sometimes asked after it. His home.

Was it somewhere cold? It had to be, of course. He was Jack Frost after all. Spirit of Winter and mischief impersonated.

In their own way, they found ways to lightly bring the question up without previous prompting.

Like when painting colorful eggs with Bunnymund:

"Ya' have somewhere cold and freezin' ta' call yer' own, Frostbite?"

While visiting Toothiana in her grand, beautiful palace nestled deep within the mountains of Punjam Hy Loo:

"I'd love to visit one day, Jack. My fairies and I both."

During his sporadic stays at the Workshop creating mysterious, magical snow globes with North:

"My boy, I am thinking I too would enjoy seeing that home of yours, the home of a frost spirit."

Even Sandy managed to sneak in a question or two of his own whenever they were enjoying a animated game of charade.

He always derailed those conversation rather quickly. As subtly as he could he tried to bring the topic back on safer grounds, other tracks like fun and light banter. Provoking Bunny always worked. It was wonderfully easy making the Easter Kangaroo forget all about homes and domains, realms and other wordls when interrogating a rather uncooperative, unforthcoming Jack.

For the most part, he pushed the thoughts of _his_ and _home_ to the far recesses of his mind, refused to let them fester. At least not until the day he was unexpectedly summoned to the North Pole – or rudely kidnapped, as Jack viewed it – with the unfortunate reappearance of that horrible sack and garbling yetis.

He hadn't seen it coming. Not in a million years.

North was the first to give him his first ever _room_. A _whole_ room. Just for _him_. The burly man could hardly contain his excitement as he guided Jack along the maze of living quarters at the Workshop's second story, just above the boisterous production section, the sounds of whirring toys and grumbling yeti loud even here. North unlocked a rather plain, inconspicuous door very much like all the others lining the hallway except for a teensy tiny snowflake carved beautifully into the wood at the center. The wide smile was almost too large for his bearded face when he gestured for Jack to enter. It split even wider when he told Jack it was his to use whenever.

Bunny was a close second. Presenting him with his very own burrow not even a week and a half after North had shoved him into his room at the Pole and closed the door with a smile so warm it had reminded Jack of his human father.

When the other two remaining Guardians caught wind of Jack's new living accommodations, they threw their lot in as well, clearly not wanting to be out-staged.

Jack was given a spacey room at the top of one of Toothiana's spired towers, overlooking the gardens below and the seven grand continental columns harboring billion of children's baby teeth. Instead of windows, large archways circled his room, three in total. Jack found he liked that immensely. The vista was almost otherworldly and he could sit for hours watching the sun rise and set in grand displays of vivid pinks and fiery oranges.

Sandy gave him directions to his ever-shifting castle at the Island of Sleepy Sand where he was welcome to any and all the rooms that might catch his fancy. A bed of the most comfortable of golden sand was always waiting for him when he wanted a night free from the haunting nightmares of lonely, solitary times.

At first, he declined, turned them all down, saying he couldn't possibly accept. Besides, he had somewhere to stay like whenever – he grimaced at his own words, thinking 'smooth, Jack, real smooth'.

They all shared a look then, _the look_ , and Jack just knew that they knew, and now they knew that he knew that they knew and…

"It iz not being an offer, Jack. The room iz yours."

"Rightio, mate."

Tooth and Sandy just nodded, Tooth smiling warmly, Sandy giving him a double thumbs up.

He couldn't quite believe it, didn't know he could trust it enough not to be taken away from him.

The rooms stood empty a long, long time.

…

He wasn't sure when he began seeing the Workshop as his home. Or the Warren as his home away from home. And even though the Tooth Palace and the Island of Sleepy Sands were too warm for him, Jack still considered them his second homes too.

He wasn't sure when he began seeking out his given rooms rather than his lake, rather than the sturdy bough of his favorite pine that had sheltered him more nights than he could count. He wasn't sure when he began to long for the soothing sounds of muffled hammering and banging, babbling crooks and scampering, small feet, fluttering wings and whizzing sand. Or when the smell of home was not pine, resin and of biting winter air but of peppermint and cinnamon cookies, of spring and warm fur and fresh carrots, of sunshine and wind tousled feathers, sea water and golden sanded beaches.

It was not before sitting in one of North's more homier rooms – the one with the grand hearth and oversized chair – surrounded by all the other Guardians – his friends, maybe even _family_? – playing cards and laughing that he realized he finally had a home all of his own – four even – to return to at the day's end. The smile that slowly spread across his face, threatened to split his face in two and brought tears of a myriad of emotions to his eyes.

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 **Yay or nay?**

 **Thanks for reading, folks!**

 **Up next:**

 _ **Phil, the not so subtle Yeti**_

 **or**

 _ **Jack and the curiosity that killed the cat**_

 **Any wishes or preferences?**


	3. Small Acts of Kindness

**MagicWarriorDragon, I remember you mentioning Phil the Yeti oh so** _ **long**_ **ago… I finally got around to give our favorite furry, exasperated helper some screen time. Sorry it took so looooong!**

 **Reviews are love, but reading is love too. 3 :)**

 **Enjoy!**

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 **Small Acts of Kindness**

It wasn't that the Guardians were incompetent or ignorant, or downright inept or inadequate.

They just didn't know how to properly care for the young Spirit of Winter, that was all.

Or that was what Phil repeatedly told himself as he once again pulled the sofa a little ways away from the _burning_ fire roaring in the grand hearth in the Guardians of Childhood's designated meeting room.

Shaking his head in both fondness and exasperation, he set out to reassure himself that he had not missed any other misdirected, good-intended but seriously misplaced deeds.

He stoked the fire and opened the window, Jack's unexplained need to always have an exit always at the forefront of his mind when it came to the small, enigmatic frost spirit.

Phil was a cautious yeti, a heedful and attentive yeti that preferred being in control, preferred to prevent unnecessary, unpredictable incidents. There was a reason he was head of security after all. Therefore, he saw it as his job to protect the Guardians' youngest member, not only from his new, well-meaning friends but also from himself. The frostling was way too reckless for his own good. Being well over three hundred years one should think the boy knew not to play with chemicals, magical spells or indulge in the elves' hare-brained schemes for Bigfoot's sake.

Despite all the troubling incidents and near disasters, having a child running (or flying) down the corridors and through the difference production sectors, bothering yetis with unrelenting questions of _what, how, who_ and _can I try it_ once more was kind of nice. Jack Frost was like a breath of fresh air that brought wide, warm grins to all their faces despite the inevitable trouble that constantly followed the young frost spirit. Though, few would ever admit it, Jack's childish antics, playful, carefree attitude and spark for all things mischievous was something they all had begun to cherish and adore, even if the boy left nothing but destruction in his wake, leaving his snow and frost everywhere. The boy's elated laughter and ridiculously happy grin warmed everyone's hearts.

Ever since Jack had begun frequenting the Pole, Phil had noticed small quirks about the boy he hadn't noticed prior to his induction into Guardianship. Jack, for all his bravado and spunky personality, was really a shy and insecure boy who expertly hid behind fake smiles and boisterous laughter. A boy who, in the presence of those who cared about him, forgot all about self-preservation and did everything not to draw unwanted attention to certain things about himself that were not linked to pranks and mischief. At first, the boy had withdrawn into himself, isolating himself from the others by favoring the window seat instead of the couch and shying away from every touch placed upon his small frame. But once settled in, the boy quickly became the most selfless thing Phil had ever seen. Now more secure and less doubtful and wary, Jack no longer felt the need to isolate himself and thus sat with the other Guardians on the couch by the _fire_ , making no complaints about the effects the searing heat had on him. Phil had let it pass at first but after witnessing the boy dressing his own burn wounds by himself _with_ a fever raging through his tiny frame, blue eyes dull and weary, pale fingers trembling as they applied bandages, he'd set his furry foot down. After that incident the couch was never again seen anywhere near the burning hearth, and Jack no longer looked like he was melting during the Guardians many meetings. And after a terrifying panic attack, which left Phil melting ice both _inside_ and _outside_ the Workshop for _days_ , at least one of the windows in every room was always left open for the troubled, little frost child.

Grabbing a plate stacked high with freshly baked cinnamon cookies from the kitchen, he quickly made his way back to the meeting room, knowing too well how cranky Nicholas St. North would be if he didn't get his cookies on time. He placed the plate on the side-table right by Jack's preferred seat. Another thing the Guardians seemed to constantly forget or never having picked up on, was that Jack Frost, contrary to popular belief (at least among his fellow Guardians and the hoard of North's workforce), was a very polite, diffident spirit that did not simply take to eating other people's food, despite having been explicitly told numerous times that the kitchen was his to use whenever his heart so desired. Therefore, it became Phil's self-appointed job to make sure the skinny boy got some food into his starveling lean body. And so, wherever Jack's fancy and short attention span brought him to the Pole, there would always be a plate or two of cookies or a bowl of quickly cooling stew awaiting pale, thin fingers.

It wasn't like he expected gratitude or recognition of any kind. He didn't do it for attention nor was it an obligation. Sometimes he even found himself wondering why he went out of his way to make the mischievous boy as comfortable as possible. He stumbled over the answer one day when watching a certain frost spirit frolicking in the snow outside the Workshop, playing by himself, but still whooping in unmitigated joy, a huge grin splitting his face as he danced through the sky with the wind at his back and rolled in snow he conjured up himself. He'd never seen the frost child so at peace, so untroubled and happy.

Before becoming a Guardian, the Jack Frost Phil constantly busted trying to break in, had eyes shadowed by an anguish and a despair so painfully deep-seated it made Phil uncomfortable. The boy had hid it well, by a frivolous, mischievous attitude and pranks that rubbed Phil the wrong way. The boy's cheeky, easy grin had overshadowed the desolation and hopelessness flaring in his bright, blue eyes and the despondent set of his small shoulders.

The boy that had been playing in the snow and singing to the wind was a completely different Jack Frost and Phil had suddenly wanted nothing more than to make sure Jack stayed that way.

The Guardians would arrive any second now, and Phil took one last look around the room. Finding nothing out of place, he strode over to the door. Reaching for the handle he stopped short, arm outstretched as the door was flung open. He let out a garble of expletives as he staggered a couple of feet backward, arm falling back to his side.

Right on time, one Guardian after the other entered the temperate room, North being the first to grab a cookie and call for some eggnog as he seated himself at the edge of the oversized sofa. Bunnymund, who hopped in at his heels, went straight to the burning fire, not even eyeing the cookies, too preoccupied with rubbing his undoubtedly freezing paws, if his complaints about the cold were anything to go by. Toothiana fluttered in a few moments later, talking mile a minute to her fairies, instructing them to pick up an incisor here, a molar there. Sanderson announced his present as quietly as always not long after the animated Tooth Fairy, gliding easily through the open window. With a grateful smile, the Dreamweaver accepted the proffered cup of freshly made eggnog – but not before eying the two grinning elves holding the cup suspiciously – before taking his place beside North, his small feet dangling from the edge with no hope whatsoever of ever touching the carpeted floor.

Then the minutes began to tick by, one after another, and when the first ten minutes had come and gone Phil couldn't resist rolling his eyes.

"If tha' good for nothin' popsicle doesn't get his frozen arse inside this room this very minute I'll—"

Just then a stiff, arctic breeze swirled around the room, cutting the shivering Pooka off, Jack Frost's calling card, signaling his imminent arrival.

And as Jack gracefully flipped through the window, lightly and gracefully landing on the balls of his feet, Phil struggled to hide his growing smile. No need to give the boy the idea that he liked him or anything. He quickly scolded his face into his usual stern and gruff expression when he felt the child's eyes on him.

"Oh, hi Phil!" The boy, ever so full of inexhaustible energy, bounded over to him, trademark waggish grin already plastered on his happy face.

Phil grumped, giving the kid a quick once-over just in case, not that he was worried or anything, it was just a precaution. That's what he told himself anyway.

Satisfied, he gave the slight boy a couple of rough pats on the back, sending him stumbling forwards rather clumsily, staff flailing wildly. As the kid turned to protest, Phil could practically see the words form on his lips, then die just as fast as the immortal teen spotted the plate of cookies, and to Phil's great pleasure, Jack reached out and without hesitation, grabbed one and nibbled at it as he turned to the large couch. Before plumping down, the teen looked over his shoulder at him and gave him a shy smile, bright blue eyes filled with a tentative gratitude.

Then Jack's smile changed, a knowing look briefly passing over his face and he gave a small nod of thanks, gesturing to the couch, then the fireplace, then the plate full of cookies, cerulean eyes reflecting so many emotions it took Phil a whole second to remember how to breathe properly. It was like the child never had been on the receiving end of small acts of affections before. Inwardly, Phil swore loudly and vowed to himself that the brave, lonely Jack Frost would go without care no more. He would see to that himself, even if the little brat _was_ insufferable _and_ a constant thorn in his side.

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